Dress your family in chimmy-chuck and denim

Last weekend, a long weekend in Bend with the family, which was nice and relaxing after marathoning as well as a hectic work schedule. Saw Dad, Stepmom, Sister and Nephews...however, no cougar sitings this time.

Perhaps the most fun, though is hanging out with my sister. She is hilarious, sometimes not intentionally... (he, he, he) Anyway, when we get together we kind of become a little evalution team- driving around the neighborhoods in Bend discussing which houses are cute, which have nice lawns. Also, shopping in the Old Mill district oogling the cute firemen (there was some sort of mishap with a bicyclist, but we were quite unconcerned- considering all the cute firemen, paramedics on hand) Also women's clothes. About a year and a half ago we did a fundraising walk, and afterwards were sitting in the car and my sister pointed out a woman walking across the parking lot.

"Okay, so there's a bad outfit. I just hate that chimmy-chuck material"

Me: "What? What are you talking about? what's chimmy-chuck?"

"Oh you, know that kind of small plaid checkered stuff"

"You mean gingham?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess that's it"

No, that's not it. Everytime we see gingham, talk about gingham, it is now "chimmy-chuck" Anyway, last weekend my sister and I were evaluating her wardrobe, and in between wondering why all of her sweaters smelled like bug spray, she shared she helped my other sister sort her closet on her last visit to Canada.

"She had some tops in that chimmy-chuck. I made her get rid of them."

Out of Africa

Last night, in a vain attempt to find my prom dress to re-fashion into a halloween costume for my daughter, I stumbled across a box my Grandma had given me of some of my Grandpa's war momentos.

That's Grandma and Grandpa pictured, circa late 1950s. Most of my happiest childhood memories involve staying at their house as a little girl. My Grandpa died in the spring of 1987. I was a sophomore at the UO at the time. I came home to see him because I knew he was ill. I was glad to say goodbye, but I wish I hadn't seen him that way. My Grandpa, as you can see by the picture was a big, solid guy. Before he died he was an emiciated, frail man. Three days before he died I visited him. He could barely speak but he told me he loved me. I left 2 carnations by his bed, his favorite flowers. That was the last time I saw him.

As I get older, I realize my Grandpa and I have a lot in common: a love of reading, being a history buff and a insatiable love of chocolate. My Grandpa was diabetic, so my Grandma strictly monitored his intake of sweets. Grandma and I used to bake our special recipe of chocolate chip cookies. I always snuck a few extra to Grandpa. When my mom was pregnant with my sister Tina, she craved Reese's peanutbutter cups. My Grandpa told her he would buy a case and split the case between them. Of course, I am a huge, huge Reese's peanutbutter cup addict- seriously. Whoever invented them is a GENIUS. I especially like the minis as the chocolate to peanutbutter ratio is just right.

But, I digress. So, tiring of searching for the prom dress, I crack open the box. Inside the box are a few rings with notes attached to them and my Grandma's handwriting. She was incredibly organized and detailed. I had heard the story about the rings years before from my Grandma. My Grandpa probably spoke a total of 8 sentences to me about the war his entire life. It just wasn't something he talked about.

On July 4, 1943, a German bomber was shot down in North Africa. The Germans who survived were taken prisoner. My Grandpa told one of the prisoners that their plane was shot down on his birthday (Grandpa, older than most of the "Greatest Generation" was born July 4, 1902) The German, the plane's bombidier, apparently a jeweler in civilian life melted down the propeller of the downed plane and fashioned two rings for my Grandpa...on a plain metal one and one emblazoned with an "S" for Grandpa's last name. I suppose these were birthday gifts...knowing my Grandpa, he probably was as genial, funny and laid-back as he was later in life and told the German the birthday story somewhat jokingly. However, he carried the rings for the rest of the war, through North Africa, Italy and France, and back home to Portland, Oregon to be tucked away in a cigar box.

The White Owl cigar box had other random momentos from the war years. Coins from Tunisia, Algeria, and France. A 50 cal. bullet, to which Grandma attached a note- "Bud retrieved this bullet out of a rock wall in North Africa during World War 2- 'The big one'"- Why Grandpa retrieved the bullet and carried it with him for the rest of the war is lost to history. Also included was a patch from his uniform, his war ration book, with plenty of stamps left, and a wrist band compass. A collection of metered stamps carefully cut from the sides of envelopes. The first stamps were from 1939 all the way until 1985. All the stamps were unique and beautiful- I suppose it was just a little side hobby of collecting these little bits of stamp art he found interesting, also tucked away in the cigar box.

In the bigger box were all the books my Grandpa wanted me specifically to have. Oregon Trail history books and his favorite book of all time, Isak Diensen's "Out of Africa" a note said "a first edition from 1938"- Even though my Grandpa only completed 8th grade, he was an extremely well read man. He used to encourage me to read (I didn't really need encouragement) and he would say "Stupid is no way to go through life."

I knew my Grandpa, of course, long after the war, after he had retired from his career as a commercial fisherman on the Columbia River. When I was little, my Grandpa didn't talk much. In the morning while Grandma made breakfast, he read the paper. I would sit next to him and make faces at my reflection in the toaster at the end of the table. Every once in a while he would glance over at me and smile and quietly chuckle. He would sense Grandma was coming back into the room and poke me in the side- the signal to quit goofing and sit up straight.

Most of my time was spent with Grandma- in the kitchen, picnics at the park, "adventures" to downtown Portland on the bus. I also played barbies, and made necklaces (time with Grandma is a whole other blog post) The only game I played that my Grandpa took some interest in, was "Dude Ranch"- my Grandparents had a box of toys for us kids. One was a lot of plastic fencing, horses and two kinds of cowboys. One kind had very bowed legs and fit on the horses, the other had set legs on plastic, so they couldn't ride the horses. The guys who couldn't ride the horses, I called ranch hands- they stayed on the ranch (also known as Grandma's footstool) The others were cowboys who went on cattle drives. Unfortunately, there were no "cattle" in this playset, so wooden alphabet blocks served as my "herd." They were driven across the vast livingroom prairie, my Grandpa would look up from his book, and ask "How's the herd?"

To make the game interesting, while the cowboys were herding the cattle, a tragedy often occured back on the ranch. Such as an earthquake (overturned Grandma's footstool) or the ranch hands abandoned the ranch for the "big city" (aka the couch) leaving the cowboys to return to broken fences. Grandpa often had a comment "Reliable ranch hands are hard to find" or to Grandma: "Earthquake at the Dude Ranch today" Grandma: "Oh my!"

Sometimes I snuck away from Grandma to watch Grandpa at his workbench downstairs or playing pool at the pool table he had in the basement. The basement was his habitat. His pooltable, his woodworking bench. He even had, by today's standards, incredibly wholesome "pin-up" girl pictures from the 1940s up on the walls.

At night my Grandma would tuck me into bed, tightly, (REALLY tightly like not moving tightly) but I would crawl to the edge of the bed and I could see my Grandpa in his chair in the livingroom, and shout goodnight to him, blow him a kiss. Sometimes I would crawl down and make more goofy faces to make him chuckle. The signal to stop would be him clearing his throat and lifting his book up as Grandma entered the livingroom. I scrambled back up into bed.

Just for a little while last night holding those books, I remembered what it felt like being 8 years old again, on a summer evening, I would bring a glass of lemonade out to my Grandpa who used to sit out on the porch in the evenings. I used sit next to him and he put a big arm around me and silently, wordlessly watch dusk settle in on the quiet neighborhood.

I...walked...the marathon

Yes! I did it, and lived to tell the tale. I have to say that all in all I found the experience pretty surprising, and not being a terribly sappy person, all the stuff other people said about being emotional and crying, and all that- I was skeptical, because, I thought, yeah, they're crying because they walked 26 frickin' miles! But strangely, I found an element of truth to what those sappy people are saying. I think everyday life lends itself to making accomplishments invisible, because we get up go to work, take care of our kids and it just sort of happens...only rarely at graduations, weddings, maybe if you get an award or something do you ever get that "Yeah, I did it!" feeling. I admit it, when I crossed that finish line I got that rare "Yeah I did it" feeling, it is so rare and so incredible it imprints on your mind....but I'm getting ahead of my story.

For me the whole marathon idea started one year ago, at the 2004 Portland Marathon, where I did the Mayor's Walk which is at 10k (6 mile) I was pretty much thrashed after 6 miles. I am not an athletic person, but I can walk....mostly, except in high heels....and I did need to get in better physical shape, after all calling my extra weight, "baby weight" when my daughter is 11 years old, well, just isn't cutting it.

I joined a women's training group, which was the smartest thing I did. I had a group of ladies I walked with and a program that made it seem do-able. We would meet up at insane hours in the morning and go for increasingly long walks. We even met on off weeks to stay motivated. And the groups were created to have people who were at the same paces and fitness levels, so it was comfortable, you weren't killing yourself to keep up with some speedy person. I know our group was not the fast group, but it was fun.

So, starting in March I was dragging my ass out of bed to meet these ladies and fitting in walks on my own. At the first walk, the 5 mile "leg stretcher" I had to go home and soak my feet. In June at the 12 mile walk, I missed a party I wanted to go to because I couldn't stand. In August on my own independent 17 mile walk I was so exhusted I curled up on a bus bench. All this misery came in handy, I tell ya.

So marathon week rolls around, and I think "Holy crap!" Even though I met other milestones, such as the 20 miler in August and around 22 mile graduation walk in September, in a slightly less wrecked state...I still felt "Holy crap! What!??! This week....." So, that was my mind-set. I was also fearing failure - imaging my self pooping out, being dragged off the course for staggering around in a daze, crashing out somewhere, injuries, passing out....So, with all these reassuring thoughts swirling around in my mind, Saturday came. I was able to put it out of my mind for the day, but when evening came, I obsessed over....socks. For me the whole sock thing became critical to my walking because when I first started out I had blisters and the right shoes and socks were critical to not getting blisters. I had found the almost perfect socks, and having tried others with disasterous results I maintain a fierce loyalty to my socks. (Cool Max Pro-Spirit socks, at LeTarget, you get 6 pair for around $8) The one flaw of the super-socks is that the toes blew out on long walks, painfully wedging your big toe in a tight hole cutting off blood flow. Very uncomfortable. So, Saturday night, I pull out all these socks, I tear apart laundry mountain (our affectionate name for the never ending pile of dirty clothes) for any socks and wash those. Then it was "selection time" I looked over all the socks for wearing at the toe. Which socks would pass muster for the big day? I inspected each sock like those dog-show judges, every sock evaluated for form, fitness. The winning pair was crowned. The runner up pair I instructed my husband to meet me with at mile 20, the usual blow out point for super socks. So, I tucked away pair number 2, to replace the winning pair if they were unable to complete their duties as Miss Marathon Socks.

So, after the freakishly obsessive sock episode, it was time for bed. I couldn't sleep. I listened to music, and it helped a little. I fell asleep at 1:00 am and what seemed like moments later the alarm went off at 4:30 am.

Marathon Day had arrived.

I took a shower and packed, re-packed, my stuff, made a list for my husband and drove him insane asking him about it. We left the house at 5:30 am. I arrived downtown at around 6:00 am and perused the scene. The volunteers were setting up and it was excited chaos. In contrast to pretty much the entire year, I was the early one (go figure, I'm almost ALWAYS the late one)
My walking group ladies and I met up at the Justice Center, and after a little rah-rah time, it was time to go. My group and I went to the start point, it was clausterphobically crowded. I started bouncing on my toes. Then, bam, we were off. It was hard not to go really fast because of the energy and adreniline but our group leader cautioned us to keep pace. The first 7 miles felt like nothing, but a regular walk, as our group pretty much stayed together. I felt a little uncomfortable futzing with my jacket, hat, headphones, fanny pack water bottles (tip: when walking the marathon, LESS IS BEST) Then each member kind of started going at their own paces. At mile 9 there were port-a-potties with no lines so I took my potty break. Then I picked up the pace (my admittedly kind of slow pace) and hit mile 10 at 3 hrs 7 minutes, which was great, because that was exactly three hours from the start line for me, so my pace was just right.
At mile 11 the UO Alumni were manning the aid station playing our fight song, so that was cool. I told them I was a grad, and they cheered me saying "Go! class of '91 lady." Oh, yea, I did not know you could get your name on your bib, which most people did, so people cheered people by name on the route, I did get cheers that went "Hey! Go 7121, you can do it" (7121 was my bib number) and "Go lady in the pink shirt!"

At mile 13 Allie and Justin were waiting with my PBJ sandwich. It was so cool to see them! Allie ran to me, sandwich in hand bouncing up and down. They walked with me a bit and then it was the St. Helens Hwy. One of my major goals was to make it over the St. Johns Bridge which they close at a certain time and and then you get bussed over. I was determined to make it and do the whole marathon, so I picked up the pace to 16 min. miles. Then the hill on the bridge. I cranked the headphones to Pearl Jam and powered up the hill. I made it, I think in the nick of time. The breeze on the bridge felt good and I was still striding along...and then...a nasty side cramp I had just past the 18 mile marker when shin splints and sideache reached its high point. I kind of fell on /grabbed a telephone poll. I was in serious, severe pain, I clung to the poll to stay upright...I'm pretty sure I offended the other walkers by yelling out "F***! Oha....OHHH...this f***ing hurts!" I tried to do the breathing techniques I learned in childbirth class...the obscenities soon gave way to moaning and whimpering. Then I tried to remember stretches we were supposed to do, but could not remember and just worked on staying upright with out embracing the phone pole. I streched a little and started walking the pain subsided, but I was definitely slowed. The leg pain, thank God, worked its way out as I walked. Justin and Allie met me at the 20 mile mark with Red Vines, peppermints and socks. Miss Marathon Socks were well chosen, as she held up the whole way. Allie had a "GO MOM" sign she held up. Lots of good encouragement. A friend from a group I volunteer with lives in that area and she walked with me for 2 miles, bless her soul. At the 22 mile mark I saw our group leader- big smile and all, a volunteer from our ladies group walked me in the last 4 miles, which turned out to be a great thing, since you can make conversation and just keep motoring along without getting discouraged. My pace now was probably 21 minute mile, but I didn't care, I just wanted to finish. The last two miles had a death march quality about it, like move or die...It was funny my work's Executive Director's wife and daughter walked it too, and I saw them off and on at the end. At about mile 24 I asked E. how she was doing and she said "floating on a cloud of pain"--- When I saw our Executive Director at the base of the Steel Bridge he asked how I was and I said "On the cloud of pain with your daughter!"

I was finally headed up Salmon St. the end of the marathon. People were cheering, I felt slightly out of body, and I crossed the finish line I saw my daughter bouncing, cheering, taking pictures as the finisher's medal was placed around my neck.

M-DAY

Okay, it's here. A few hours from now I will be walking the Portland Marathon. I alternately feel excited, nervous, and "Okay, why the HELL I am doing this?"

But, I am amazed that in 9 months I have gone from couch potato to someone who is walking a whole marathon.

I will post the highlights, lowlights and gory details Monday.

Wish me luck!

My what a pretty necklace you have...

I was walking back from a luncheon in downtown Portland yesterday, waiting for the light on Broadway to change, and a man was standing on the curb next to me. He backed up and he was openly staring at me....at my chest. Brazenly, openly. No, I don't wear tight or low cut clothing and I'm not "buxom."

Shocked, I glanced down, to see if there there was some big blob of lunch resting on my chest, because that is a totally likely scenario for me. And no, I managed to eat lunch with out chunks of it on my clothes afterward.

More sustained staring...okay, this dude is creeping me out. I decide I will glare back in a Clint Eastwood-style squint, and maybe brandish my umbrella at this guy. I glare at him, and a look of shock comes over his face, and he speaks.

"Oh, uhh, uhh, I was just admiring your necklace. My girlfriend and I make jewelry, and your necklace is so unique."

I can't help but laugh, and I say, "Well that's either one of the best lines ever, or you are interested in my necklace."

He was quite nervous and embarrassed. I told him yes, the necklace is one of a kind because my late grandmother made it. After more praise for the necklace he took off in the other direction.

I didn't really know what to make of the exchange. I didn't tell him he was moments away from getting whacked by my umbrella. Thinking about it, I'm giving the guy the benefit of the doubt. The necklace is beautiful and one of a kind, and well, my boobs aren't...